


Never Trust to General Impressions

by thetimemoves (WriteOut)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, 5+1 Things, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, John Watson Observes, Light Angst, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, References to Moriarty, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, The Pool Scene (Sherlock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/pseuds/thetimemoves
Summary: John might not be a master of deduction, but as he likes to remind Sherlock on the regular, he’s no idiot either. There is what the world thinks of Sherlock, and then there is what John really knows.Well, most of the time. There's always something.Or, five things John Watson knows for sure about Sherlock Holmes and one thing he completely misses.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 50
Kudos: 219
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	Never Trust to General Impressions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/gifts).



> This follows canon up to TRF and then takes a sharp left turn. 
> 
> Many thanks to DiscordantWords for the insights and the encouragement.

==========*==========*===========*===========*============*==========

“Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details.”

Sherlock Holmes, _A Case of Identity_

==========*==========*===========*===========*============*==========

It doesn’t take John Watson long to learn what the world thinks of his new flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. In fact, he hears a good bit of it the second night he knows the man.

Freak. Arsehole. Sociopath.

He sees the looks and wonders at the flinches when he and Sherlock arrive at Brixton Gardens. He watches the others elbow each other and smirk in Sherlock’s direction. He feels the irritation and confusion the man instills in those around him. In fact, the only people who seem remotely happy about Sherlock’s presence are DI Lestrade and John himself, who likely comes off as a smitten schoolgirl every time Sherlock opens his mouth and another brilliant deduction falls out of it.

The more time he spends in Sherlock’s orbit, the more accusations he hears in whispers and in shouts.

Liar. Show-off. Bastard. Selfish.

John watches Sherlock absorb the barbs, seemingly unaffected by the nasty words flung his way. (He suspects they do grate, no matter what Sherlock says.)

However, it also doesn’t take John long to see through the façade Sherlock presents to the world, to see that there’s more to him than meets the eye. Sure, the man can be a serious prick on occasion (John needs to talk to him _again_ about unlabeled entrails in the crisper drawer), but he’s more than that. Much more. John might not be a master of deduction, but as he likes to remind Sherlock on the regular, he’s no idiot either. Well, most of the time. Some masks he sees through almost immediately, others take a little longer. But John looks closer, ignores (most of) the jibes, and he sees.

John observes, and he comes up with some deductions of his own.

Sherlock is not the cold-hearted, aloof arsehole he poses to the public. John wants to laugh every time someone tries to tell him otherwise. Well, after he punches them right out, of course. There is what the world thinks when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, and then there is what John Watson really knows.

To wit:

1\. Sherlock Holmes is not above appreciating the mundanities of everyday life.

John settles in right away at Baker Street. In fact, he moves his few belongings to 221b the morning after he kills Jefferson Hope. He can still smell the gunpowder on his hands, can still feel the imprint of the hot metal on his palm, but he doesn’t see the point in delaying. He knew he was going to live with Sherlock the moment the man winked at him at Barts. The sooner John can leave his dingy, depressing bedsit behind, the better.

John’s return to London has been a nightmare of dashed hopes and ruined expectations; he’s spent too much time thinking about lost chances and contemplating the business end of his gun. Meeting Sherlock Holmes is like the sweetest of second chances. A whole new world has been unexpectedly dropped into John’s lap and he doesn’t want to miss a second of it.

221b feels like home almost immediately, despite the clutter and, well, the body parts. The ease with which John adjusts to his new surroundings—and his new flatmate (friend?)—surprises him. He’s never been one to make impulsive decisions, never been one to attach himself too closely to others, but in two days he shoots one man and moves in with another with barely a second thought. He wonders at himself but decides not to dwell on it. He has more interesting subjects to ponder. Or subject, rather.

Like one Sherlock Holmes. (John finds himself thinking _a lot_ about the man, something else he chooses not to deeply examine.)

He and Sherlock give each space as they make Baker Street their home. Despite the deadly secret they now share, they are still mostly strangers. Sure, John’s nosed through Sherlock’s website and he might have googled the man as well (he assumes Sherlock has done the same on him), but there is much they don’t know about each other.

Not being one to overshare himself, John is reluctant to bombard Sherlock with questions, but he wants to know _everything_. How did Sherlock meet Mrs Hudson? What’s the deal with Mycroft? Just what did Sherlock really mean by ‘not my area?’ Sherlock is annoyingly resistant to most of John’s awkward attempts to pry, so John does the simplest and most effective thing: he watches Sherlock.

One facet of the man makes itself apparent not long after their first case together. For all his DON’T BE BORING talk, Sherlock has a great many affections that can’t be considered anything but ordinary.

For starters, Sherlock loves crap telly. A lot. John discovers this one afternoon when he comes home from the shops and finds Sherlock on the couch, entranced by what looks to be a particularly sordid episode of Jeremy Kyle. John stares at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s watching for real or off on an extended journey in his mind palace. When Sherlock starts shouting back in response to whatever is happening onscreen, John just shrugs in baffled amusement and heads into the kitchen to put away the milk and McVitie’s.

Jeremy Kyle, Jerry Springer, Maury Povich, Trisha Goddard… Sherlock can’t get enough.

John tells him those shows are mostly full of shit, but Sherlock waves him off. He says they’re good for honing observational skills, especially for detecting body tells when lying. John agrees there’s no shortage of lying on these shows, but he can’t fathom how Sherlock can stand all the yelling. He accepts Sherlock’s reasoning at face value but thinks deep down the man enjoys a shit show like most everyone else.

(Sherlock’s love of trashy entertainment only goes so far, however. Big Brother is a no go. With the exception of the occasional Sunday Express, tabloids appear to be are another, as John finds out via an experiment of his own. Curious to see Sherlock’s reaction, John brings home a couple copies of the Daily Mail—the Daily Fail, basically Jeremy Kyle in print form, he cackles to himself—and leaves them out for Sherlock to find. The reaction is typically Sherlockian, and John has only himself to blame for what happens next.

The man becomes obsessed. Over the next week, Sherlock buys every tabloid he can lay hands on and spends hours poring over them. Every chance he gets, he regales John with the stories he finds, each one more outrageous and unbelievable than the last. John knows better by now than to be startled at the intensity of Sherlock’s obsessions, but he does rather kick himself. After a week, though, as suddenly as the fixation starts, it stops. When it’s clear Sherlock has moved on, John gathers up the many papers strewn about the flat with a sigh of relief. He brings them down to Mrs Hudson, who’s only too happy to share them with Mrs Turner next door.)

Then there are the long, steamy showers Sherlock is exceedingly fond of taking. He has all sorts of posh, delicious smelling products stashed in the bath. (John might have sniffed them all out of curiosity.) There are thick, plush towels, including a special one he uses only for his (gorgeous) hair. His showers are more like comfort rituals than practical hygiene, and he sometimes takes more than one on days with no cases. Sherlock likes to scoff at others for wasting time, but he has no shame in spending ages using up all the hot water in the flat. 

Sherlock also has the sweetest tooth of anyone John has ever met. He conveniently forgets to pick up bread when they’re out, or anything else of nutritional value, but he always has a handful of something sugary in reach. Hard candies. Caramels. Chocolates. Jam, on toast or straight from the jar into his mouth. The last time John had to check the pockets of Sherlock’s greatcoat, he found two packages of wine gums, half of a Flake Bar, and a handful of butterscotch candies. Mrs Hudson indulges both men with a steady supply of baked goods, so there is almost always cake or muffins or biscuits to be found. John has no idea how Sherlock survives on so much sugar, but he figures all of that running around London requires extra calories. (It’s not as if the man isn’t already long and lean, and John stops himself right there.)

Sherlock likes dogs. In fact, John thinks he might even love them. John discovers this on a case involving a shady dog groomer using her business as a front for money laundering. The first visit to the shop is legitimate, the two of them scoping out the place under the guise of being potential customers (minus an actual dog, but Sherlock has an involved story about breed and hair type and shampoo preferences, of course). There are lots of dogs in the place, in the waiting area and in the back stalls with the groomers. Sherlock wanders about, chatting to the owners and exclaiming over the dogs, petting the friendlier pups and even letting one or two lick his face. He is so flamboyant that John has to bite his lip more than once to keep from howling, but he can tell Sherlock's deep interest in the dogs is for real. Despite his (to John) over the top performance, Sherlock charms the owner into revealing more than she intends. John suspects Sherlock solves the case after that first visit, but they make two more trips to the shop for what Sherlock calls ‘evidence’ and for what John thinks is just a way for Sherlock to see the dogs again and to give them treats. After the case, John watches Sherlock more closely whenever they cross paths with dogs. Sherlock is quite reserved, in contrast to his behavior on the case, but John now sees him light up. Very occasionally he allows himself to squat down and give an especially friendly dog a scratch. John doesn’t understand the reticence but starts to wonder about the possibility of a dog at Baker Street.

It’s all so ordinary, so mundane, but it endears Sherlock to John even more. John soaks up these little glimpses into the human behind the genius. He knows he’s privileged to see these sides of Sherlock that most others do not, and he looks forward to learning even more about this man who has become surprisingly essential.

2\. Sherlock Holmes is not a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise.

It might not take John long to make Baker Street his home, but it does takes him longer to bring up something that’s been burning in his brain since he moved in. Three months, in fact. Three months to build up the courage to ask Sherlock why he called himself a sociopath before hopping into Jefferson Hope’s cab. John killed a man himself almost immediately after, so he has to laugh at his hesitation to bring it up. Sure, he can shoot someone, but ask Sherlock such a personal question? God forbid.

He holds his tongue, bides his time for the right moment. It’s after taking the case for Sebastian Wilkes that John finally decides to say something.

Wilkes is a wanker of the highest order. John comes to that conclusion in the first 30 seconds of meeting the man. After five minutes, he decides he loathes him (and mentally berates himself too… _colleague_ … _really, Watson?_ ). Wilkes seems to take inordinate pleasure in making it clear how much he and his classmates hated Sherlock. Considering the man called Sherlock in the first place and not the other way round, John feels like he’s being extra shitty. Why Sherlock is giving this prick a single second of his time, John has no idea.

John catches the look on Sherlock’s face when Sebastian calls his brilliance a trick and holds his breath. As far as insults go, it’s nothing Sherlock hasn’t heard dozens of times before. He usually laughs them off before tossing off some exquisite insults of his own in return. But not this time. This time he only replies that it’s not a trick. John sees the flash of pain on Sherlock’s face as Wilkes gleefully shares how he and his classmates hated Sherlock, and his heart breaks a little. The man looks quietly devastated in a way John hasn’t witnessed before now. He’s not sure what to do with that, but before he can say anything himself, the moment passes. Sherlock’s face resets, he makes a cutting remark to Sebastian, and conversation moves on.

It’s not just that first encounter with Wilkes that has John turned inside out. It’s also how he treats the banker Van Coon’s PA when he reveals the truth of the jade pin. 

He sees how Sherlock reacts to Sarah, the begrudging respect he shows her when she uncovers a clue, one he missed himself. (His overall reaction to Sarah, in fact. Respect _and_ jealously, particularly for her claim on John’s time and attention. Sherlock crashes their date and that doesn’t annoy John nearly as much as it should.)

But it’s also the care and affection he has for Mrs Hudson. It’s the way he smiles at sappy commercials when he thinks no one is looking. How he always knows when John is on the verge of passing out (or raging out) from hunger while they’re on a case, and how Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to drag him into the nearest chippy.

They’re enjoying a quiet morning together in their relatively clean kitchen (thank you, Mrs Hudson), John working on a crossword puzzle and Sherlock reading the paper and taking notes, when John finally blurts it out.

“Why do you do that?” John groans inwardly and immediately regrets his awkward opening. There’s no taking it back now, however.

“Be specific, please.” Sherlock doesn’t look up, just idly flips another page of the same newspaper he’s been poring over since finishing breakfast. On the prowl for another case, as always.

John clears his throat. In for a penny… “Why do you call yourself a sociopath?”

A beat. Then, “ _High-functioning_ sociopath, you mean.”

John rolls his eyes. “But why?”

“John. I know you lack certain cognitive abilities, but even you can see—”

“Fuck right off with that. Try again.”

“Why do you even care?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’? Of course, I care, Sherlock! It’s bullshit and you know it. I don’t understand why you tell people that crap. All it does is make things more difficult.” John realizes he’s nervously tapping his pencil against the table and forces himself to stop.

“For whom? You? Oh, so sorry to cause you extra trouble.” Sherlock still hasn’t looked up, but John can tell he’s no longer paying attention to the newspaper.

“Nope, don’t do that. Do you recall what happened the second night I knew you? A little situation you found yourself in and my part in it?”

A nod.

“So, let’s not talk about difficulties for me, then. You know I mean for you.”

Sherlock sighs and finally sets the paper down. “What makes you so sure I’m lying when I call myself that?”

“Because you’re not one. Obviously.”

“’Obviously.’” It's Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Sociopaths are manipulative, lack empathy and consideration, lie to get their own way, put themselves first always. You think that describes you?”

“I’m sure you could ask any number of people and they would agree.” Sherlock runs a hand through his messy hair. He’s slightly agitated but makes no signs of leaving the table.

John presses on. “Agree that you can be a wanker at times, yeah. A bit of a posh bastard, definitely.”

“Donovan would agree with me.”

“You think?" A snort. "There’s a story there I want to hear about someday.”

Sherlock brightens, clearly pleased with the change of subject. “Well, it all started when—”

“No, you don’t get to change the subject.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and tilts his head back, breaking eye contact. “What is the point of this, John?”

“I saw your face when Sebastian Wilkes made his nasty comments about how no one liked you in uni. When I—me, of all fucking people—corrected that slimy git when he called me your friend.”

“They’re just words.” Sherlock looks back down, but not at John. He picks at the corner of his paper, tearing it into little pieces.

“They’re really not.”

Sherlock bites his lip, but he stops tearing at the paper. For the thousandth time, John wants to kick himself (and Wilkes).

“I watched you hand over a piece of priceless jewelry without a second thought. I see you bringing tea down to Mrs Hudson when her hip is acting up. You smile at just about every damn dog you see. And...” He hesitates, thinking about the times Sherlock has freely offered up his bank card, the nights he plays his violin when John's demons get too loud. "...there's me. You look out for me, when you can be bothered."

Sherlock quirks a smile. “Ah, but I could be playing a part. It’s easy to sham a smile and a good deed.”

John barks out a laugh. “Of all the things you can sham, a smile is not one of them. Have you seen yourself? You’d scare off the Grinch himself.”

Sherlock finally looks at John again and grins for real this time, multiple chins and all.

John can’t help but mirror it. He reaches over and briefly touches his friend’s hand. “I see you, Sherlock. I _see_ you."

Sherlock, his cheeks faintly pink, doesn't respond. He clears his throat and picks his paper back up. "If you're making tea, I'll take a cup."

Pleased, John gets up to make them both a fresh cuppa. He's glad he spoke up after all. 

3\. Sherlock Holmes craves physical touch.

Sherlock is surprisingly tactile. He touches _everything_. He sticks his hands into unknown substances for evidence at crime scenes (much to Dr Watson’s dismay). He runs a hand along brick walls and rusty gates when they’re out and about. He pokes his fingers at specimens provided by Molly Hooper. He’s constantly fiddling with his phone, with his keys, with papers, with anything he can get his hands on. At home, he wears sumptuous dressing gowns and constantly rubs the edges of the silky, soft fabric. He ruffles his own curls, not always in frustration. He likes cradling cups of scalding tea in his hands.

That said, Sherlock does not initiate human contact unless necessary. With the sole exception of Mrs Hudson, for whom he reserves the right to hug without reservation, Sherlock asserts himself as being above the base human need for touch.

John suspects the opposite is true not long after he moves in to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock keeps his distance at first, clearly making his own observations about John and his limits, and then decides almost right away that personal space is not one of them. He looms over John in the kitchen, at crime scenes, and on the tube. He’s fine with barging into John’s room at all hours of the day—and night—and making demands for everything from tea and clean pants to John’s company on a case. John minds less than he should. He likes that Sherlock seeks him out, even for trivial items, but he does wish the man would draw a line at invading the bathroom while John relaxes in the tub. (Why _he_ doesn’t draw that line, well…)

They don’t touch each other often, not deliberately. John patches Sherlock up as needed, checks his ribs for any breaks, rotates an ankle to check for sprains, applies plasters and the occasional row of neat stitches. On one memorable afternoon, John strips Sherlock's pants off to pull out dozens of cactus spines from Sherlock's bare bum. Sherlock has, on occasion, grabbed John to pull him out of some form of imminent danger, whether it be a raging suspect or runaway bus. Touching for camaraderie or comfort, though? No, not them.

That all changes the night they finally meet the elusive James Moriarty at the pool.

***

After Moriarty slips into the shadows a second time, John is glad he’s already on the ground. He’s not sure his legs can hold him up and he doesn’t fancy having a wobble while danger still lurks.

“Christ, Sherlock.” John takes a deep breath and attempts to slow his racing heart and unclench his fists. For all his experiences on the battlefield, being strapped with a live bomb is not among them. “Is he gone for good this time?”

Sherlock continues to stare at the spot where Moriarty stood only moments ago. He doesn’t turn to John. “Wait there. I’ll check.” 

“Not going anywhere at the moment…not sure I even could.” John has faced down numerous horrors in his time, but James Moriarty seems determined to outrank them all.

Sherlock moves down to the end of the pool where Moriarty too recently stood ground. He ducks out of view, leaving John by the pool’s edge.

Other than the whir of a distant fan, the pool is silent. John strains to hear something, anything, but there is nothing. Not even the whisper of fleeing footsteps. Moriarty and his gang of snipers have vanished as silently as they appeared.

Sherlock isn’t gone for long, but to John it feels like forever. It’s only when he reappears, this time on the other side of the pool, that John finally begins to relax.

“He’s disappeared. We’re the only ones here.” Sherlock makes his way back over and starts to pace. He still has the gun in his hand and once again moves it perilously close to his temple. “Dammit, I should have seen this coming.”

Feeling more in control the more Sherlock acts out of it, John carefully gets up. He stands still for a moment to ensure his bad leg won’t give out and then he reaches toward Sherlock.

“Sherlock, the gun. Give it to me.”

Sherlock doesn’t listen; he’s too busy muttering his perceived failures over and over and gesturing alarmingly with the weapon.

“The gun. NOW.”

Sherlock, startled, stops in his tracks and has the good grace to look mildly sheepish.

“Come here.” John nods at Sherlock, who steps forward fractionally. “No, closer. Come closer.”

Sherlock sighs and moves much closer. He hands the gun to John, who gives it a quick look-over before sticking it in the waistband at his back. The gun is warm from the heat of Sherlock's hand.

The tension rolling off Sherlock is palpable, and John knows he must do something to break it before it breaks Sherlock. He reaches up and clasps Sherlock’s upper arms. He squeezes and then begins to briskly rub them, to settle Sherlock down. “It’s okay, it’s over now.”

Sherlock trembles, his eyes wide and unblinking, but he says nothing. His breath hitches, and then, no doubt feeling emboldened by John’s hands, runs his own over John’s chest. Checking for god knows what, maybe just to reassure himself that John is there, whole, that they both are.

Neither man speaks. The tension shifts, alters.

They stand there, not quite hugging but still attached, until the overhead lights burst on and Mycroft’s people pour in.

***

After the pool, Sherlock crowds into John’s personal space even more. It’s as if a switch has been flipped, and he’s now allowed to indulge some innate desire to touch. He bumps his shoulder against John’s. He sticks his cold toes under John’s thigh when they sit on the couch and watch Bond movies together. He grips John’s arm when he’s trying to make a point. He stands even closer at crime scenes, their hands barely brushing.

John does what he can to satisfy this need of Sherlock’s (and his own, to be honest). He pats Sherlock’s head in passing when the man is bent over an experiment. He puts his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back to guide him through a door or up the stairs. He stands closer even when not at crime scenes and his hand itches to grab Sherlock’s. He finds himself wanting to properly hug Sherlock, to put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and squeeze when they’re in a cab. To brush Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead. To run a finger along the side of his face. He pinches himself, hard, when those thoughts intrude. There are lines not to cross, and then there are _lines._

John knows the two of them are gravitating toward each other not only physically, but also emotionally. The realisation is both breathtaking and terrifying and he tamps it down as much as he can.

4\. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t actually hate his brother.

Watching Sherlock and Mycroft battle it out for winner of biggest arsehole is amusing, but it’s also exhausting. John learns early on that one of his important roles in Sherlock’s life is as intermediary when hostilities between the brothers flare up to nuclear levels. A level stare, a perfectly timed cough, or more than once, a sharp elbow in the side. (Sherlock’s side, of course. John can only imagine what would happen if he tried that with Mycroft. Tempting though it may be, he values his freedom and doesn’t much fancy Sherlock needing to bail him out.)

Most of the time, Sherlock acts merely annoyed with Mycroft. The man’s influence has proven helpful more than once, a fact even Sherlock can’t deny. John gets it, he does. Mycroft likes to insert himself into Sherlock’s life a lot more than necessary. As a big brother himself, he can’t always fault Mycroft for wanting to involve himself in Sherlock’s life. There are limits, however, and Mycroft tends to gloss over them, resulting in moments of true vitriol between the brothers.

He thinks back to tea with Mycroft and the equerry at Buckingham Palace, at the introduction of Irene Adler into their lives. Sherlock, resistant to following any social norms until his hand was forced by his brother. The pointed comments, the snide tones, years of built-up resentments on full display in the splendour of the palace.

John wonders what could have possibly happened to create such a rift between the brothers. There is a deep history there that John can only imagine, but that’s yet another area he doesn’t dare broach with Sherlock. He doesn’t want his head bitten off for being nosy. Even more than that, he really doesn’t want Sherlock to turn the question around to make some sort of cutting deduction about John’s own relationship with Harry.

Still, despite appearances, it is not always struggle and strife with the Holmes brothers.

***

John comes out of a deep sleep, slowly. Something at the edge of his consciousness wakes him up, but it takes him a few moments to shake the vestiges of sleep and place it. When he does, his eyes widen.

Laughter.

Sherlock is laughing. John sits upright and tilts his head towards his bedroom door. The sound is startling. If there is laughter at Baker Street, it was usually with him and Sherlock and occasionally with Mrs Hudson as well.

He pauses a moment to listen. It is Sherlock’s real laugh, not the sham chuckles he pulls with members of the Yard or certain clients. Is he alone? Watching telly? No, it's not that. He’s not laughing alone. John hears snippets of a conversation and dual bursts of laughter. There is someone downstairs with Sherlock. Not Mrs Hudson, another man. Lestrade? Hard to believe, but John has no idea who else it could be. The thought of Sherlock and Greg in hysterics is almost too much to imagine.

Intensely curious now, John gets up and slips on a pair of sweats and a worn t-shirt. He’s out the door and at the top of the stairs when a voice from below stops him cold.

 _No_. No, it can’t be.

Is Sherlock having a laugh, a genuine laugh, with Mycroft?

John goes down the stairs as quietly as he can. He’s got to see this, has got to see Sherlock and his brother doing something other than snipe and toss insults at each other. The more recent nastiness at Buckingham Palace makes the laughter even more incongruous.

When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he practically tiptoes over to the door and peeks in. He doesn’t want the brothers to see him before he can see them.

He almost laughs out loud himself at the picture that greets him.

The Holmes brothers are on either side of the fireplace, bent over and practically in hysterics, or what passes for hysterics for them. Mycroft is hanging onto the mantel with one hand, the other braced against his knee, while Sherlock has both hands on his knees. They’re gasping for breath between laughs.

“And then Mummy said, ‘My Sherlock would never!’”

“You were a rotten little boy, you know,” Mycroft gulped. “I was always covering for you.”

“Wanting to be in control even from the start, more like.”

“Better me than Nanny. That woman would have given Thatcher the collywobbles.”

More breathless laughter.

John is utterly entranced. He has no idea what’s going on, but for the first time he sees a sincere affection between the brothers, and he doesn’t want it to end.

“Oh, do stop lurking, John. We know you’re there.” Sherlock’s deep voice is rough with amusement.

John refuses to look guilty as he steps into the room. “Didn’t meant to interrupt…whatever this is.”

Sherlock straightens up, Mycroft mirroring him on the other side of the fireplace.

“This is nothing, John, just a childhood reminiscence.” Mycroft does his best to regain an imperious glare, but John knows better now. The man does have a sense of humour. Collywobbles, indeed.

Mycroft turns to Sherlock. “Do think about what I asked you.”

“I’d rather think about anything else, in fact.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and gathers his coat and ever-present umbrella. He tips his head at John as he walks out, the corners of his eyes still crinkled in mirth.

John watches Mycroft leave and turns to Sherlock. "What was that about, dare I ask?"

"Just Mycroft, being an interfering git as always."

"What was so funny?" 

Sherlock pulled at a corner of his shirt that had become untucked during his laughing fit. "It's nothing. He thought he could guilt me into doing his legwork by bringing up some old story. It's not going to work."

"Hmm...really? I thought you two looked quite chummy."

"Ugh, John. Never."

John wags a finger and does his best to pull a serious face. “Nah, the truth is finally revealed,” he intones, like he's proclaiming a new scientific discovery.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Sherlock swans over to the couch and flings himself down.

“You don’t really hate your brother.”

Sherlock snorts. “Oh please.”

Undeterred, John continues. “In fact, I think you actually _like_ him.”

“Shut. Up.” Sherlock flips over on the couch and shoves his face against the back.

John takes the hint: Conversation over. He just shakes his head, smiles, and goes into the kitchen for some much-needed tea.

Later that day, his phone pings with a rare text from Mycroft. John opens it with some trepidation; texts from the elder Holmes are usually a portent of incoming trouble and deleted as quickly as possible.

Not this time.

It’s a vintage photo of two young children, around ages four and 10. The younger one is dressed in baggy breeches and tunic. A lopsided pirate’s hat with a garish feather sits atop the little one’s disheveled curls. He’s pointing a wood sword at the older boy, who’s dressed a bit more stodgily, battered barrister’s wig included. Both boys have gigantic grins. It takes a second for John to realise what he’s looking at, but when he does, he ends up in hysterics himself. Little Sherlock and young Mycroft. He laughs until he cries. Sherlock comes over to see what’s so funny and when he spies the photo, he turns and stomps down his room and slams the door shut.

John, still laughing, just shakes his head at Sherlock’s reaction and texts Mycroft back a simple ‘thanks.’ He is never going to delete this one.

5\. John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

“I don’t have _friends_.”

Sherlock’s snarl rings loudly in John’s ears for far too long after the case at Baskerville. He can still feel the burn in his belly at the words, the fury with which Sherlock spat them out.

The flash of hurt and disbelief John felt had been followed by almost overwhelming anger. How dare Sherlock. How dare he say that to John, of all people. To the man who has stood by him through thick and thin, the man who has put Sherlock above everyone and everything else.

Even after Sherlock takes it back in his own awkward way, John can’t get the words out of his head. He knows he’s Sherlock’s closest person, his best friend. He’s John’s best friend too. John, who never let himself get too attached to anyone, can’t imagine his life without Sherlock in it. He had wondered if Sherlock felt the same and based on his fumbling apology, John thinks he just might. Still, Sherlock’s words continue to sting.

John knows Sherlock. He knows him better than anyone else, yet there is still so much to discover. He’s also learning more about himself. He’s not one for serious introspection…doesn’t care for where it tends to lead him most of the time, so he plays it safe and doesn’t dig too deep into his own head. Or rather, he used to. He finds himself thinking more about his relationships in general and his relationship with Sherlock in particular. John knows the two of them have reached an insane level of codependency over the many months they’ve been flatmates and friends. The question remains, does he truly want to know why?

***

It all comes to a head one night as he’s sitting in his local with Greg Lestrade. They’ve been getting together for pints ever since that very first case with the serial suicides. John likes Greg. He likes how unflappable he is (most of the time) in the face of Sherlock’s…Sherlocky-ness. John appreciates that Greg treats Sherlock like a person and not a robotic deduction machine, that he has a genuine respect—and dare he say, affection—for him.

Never one to have a wide social circle to begin with, John’s social life has whittled down considerably since he threw in his lot with Sherlock. Sherlock aside, Greg has become a reliable, solid friend, someone John can turn to in times of need and when he just wants to drink pints and watch some football. He’s not sure if tonight’s pints are for the former or the latter. There’s a match on the tv above the bar, but John isn’t paying attention.

Greg, whose intuition has been finely honed by years of police work, senses John needs to work something out. (Just another reason John is grateful for the man.) “How’s Himself doing these days? He’s not harassed me for a case in a few weeks.”

“Fine, I guess. I don’t really know.” John has an idea of what Greg is trying to ask, but he doesn’t know how to answer him.

“Everything okay? I know Baskerville was a bit of a cock-up there at the end.” Greg shudders, no doubt remembering the explosion and Dr Frankland.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” says John. He swallows the last of his pint and motions towards Greg’s mostly empty glass. “Another?”

“Sure. But you’re avoiding the question.”

“No, I’m not. Sherlock is okay, I guess. We’ve cut back on cases. We decided we needed a break. Be back in a sec.”

John gets up and makes his way over to the bar. He has a feeling what Greg is trying to get at, and it’s a conversation that will require a lot more liquid fortitude. When he makes it back to their table with fresh pints in hand, Greg gives him a knowing look.

“Do you hear yourself?” Greg narrows his eyes.

John furrows his brow. “Huh?”

“’ _We_ ’ are doing this, ‘ _we_ ’ are not doing that… John, seriously. Do you hear yourself? You don’t separate yourself from him.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“John.” Greg throws John a pointed look.

“What? Look, Greg. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“You’ve been moping for ages.”

“I just… I’m happy with how things are. I am.”

“Hmm…okay.” A pause. “I think you need to get a leg over.”

John chokes on a mouthful of ale. “What?”

“Sex, John. You need to get laid.” Greg picks up his pint and subtly gestures to the far side of the pub. “Over there, woman in the green sweater, yeah? She’s been giving you the eye since we walked in.”

John does his best to casually look in the direction Greg is pointing and then wishes he didn’t.

Indeed, there is a woman in a green sweater, sitting with a group of women. When they see John look over, they all titter and one nudges the woman in green with her elbow.

Greg snorts. “Told you. Bet you could walk right over and be guaranteed some lovely company in your bed tonight.”

Embarrassed to be caught out looking, John turns back to his pint. “You think so, eh?”

“When was the last time you went out with someone? A date, a dirty weekend, anything?”

John doesn’t respond. They both know it’s been months.

“This is a golden opportunity to break your celibate streak. You should think about it.”

“Hmm…” John stares at his drink, and he does think about it. He’s quite sure he knows what would happen if he was to get up, walk over, and offer to buy the woman a drink. She’d clearly accept. They would have lots of drinks, maybe something to eat to ward off the alcohol, and then one or the other would suggest leaving for a more private drink. He imagines bringing her back to Baker Street, taking her up the stairs to his room, taking her clothes off, touching her, all the while knowing Sherlock would be just below in his own room, fully aware of what John was doing and who he was doing it with.

The thought makes him shudder. More than that, it makes him sad. He doesn't want that with the woman in the green sweater. He doesn’t want to be with anyone, not really, not when his focus is elsewhere. Elsewhere, hah.

For the first time, John stops prevaricating and admits the truth to himself. He doesn’t want anyone else because he wants Sherlock. _Oh my god_ , he thinks. _I want Sherlock._

No, that’s not all of it, and he know it. It isn't just want. And there it is, his ultimate truth.

He's _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes.

This is not new; John knows this down deep in his bones, has known it for a long time. He’s been content to keep these feelings buried, not wanting to disrupt the status quo, not wanting to threaten his place in Sherlock’s life should he not feel the same as John. And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? He knows what’s in his heart, but what about Sherlock’s?

He comes out of his reverie with a start. Greg is watching him, a knowing smile on his face.

“I can’t, Greg. I _can’t_.”

Greg nods, slowly. “And why is that, exactly?”

“I’m in love with Sherlock.” John says the words out loud for the first time and isn’t sure if he wants to cry or throw up. Maybe both.

“Cheers, mate!” Greg clinks his pint against John’s. He’s rather enthusiastic about it and beer sloshes over the rim of the glass and onto the table. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

John moves his pint over and puts his head in his hands. “One of these days I’m going to ask you what you mean by that.”

Lestrade, sensing John’s anxiety, grips his shoulder. “It’s all good, John, really.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who’s in love with Sherlock Holmes,” John mumbles into his hands.

Greg laughs, loudly. “You’ve got me there, mate.”

John loves Sherlock. What he is meant to do with that, he has no idea. He drains his pint and motions for another. 

***

Only, there’s always something. For as much John knows about the man he lives with, he isn’t a genius consulting detective. Sometimes he misses the obvious. As Sherlock likes to say, John sees, but he does not always observe.

+1. Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson back.

Sherlock doesn’t do romantic relationships, as he so pointedly tells John during their first dinner. “Not my area,” he says, meaning women, but he then cements his stance against relationships in general. John takes the clear hint and drops the subject, never to bring it up again. He’s curious, sure (okay, more like obsessed) with this black hole of Sherlock’s past he knows nothing about, but he won’t push the man to reveal more than what he’s comfortable with.

John fumes over Sebastian Wilkes and his vile insinuations and nasty gossip. He gets even angrier when Mycroft, wanting to get a little of his own back, calls out Sherlock’s lack of experience in Buckingham Palace. Of all places, really. Arsehole.

John pries, just a little. Just to see if Sherlock is more open to talking about his past. He is reminded quickly that the answer is no and the subject is settled. That is, until Irene Adler spins into their lives like a tornado.

John breaks his own rule. He has to know.

“Are you planning to see her again?” he asks Sherlock after finding Irene in Sherlock’s bed. “And how do we feel about that?” he asks Sherlock after handing him Irene’s phone.

Sherlock never answers.

***

Sherlock never contradicts anyone who calls them a couple, never denies it nor tells them off for it. Unlike John, who can’t keep his own mouth shut. Not gay, he says. Over and over. Not gay. There’s more to it than that, but it’s not anyone’s business but his own. Still, John’s not sure why he’s so adamant about it. Or so he tells himself. A not so generous part of him always wants to see Sherlock’s reaction, to see if he’ll give anything away (because John surely won’t, coward that he is). John supposes no response is better than outright rejection, but at some point he expects Sherlock to issue his own flat denial.

As time goes on, he starts to wonder.

He never does build up the courage to ask Sherlock about it. Moriarty comes back with a vengeance and life goes sideways.

***

John is always willing to go along with whatever scheme Sherlock has cooked up, always game to just follow him without question. This time, however, he needs answers. Reeling from Sherlock’s arrest, his own assault on the Chief Superintendent, and their subsequent, handcuffed run from the Yard, John has reached his breaking point.

When Sherlock hurls himself—gracefully, of course—over the gate and leaves John stuck on the other side, the bastard, John decides enough is enough.

“Sherlock, wait!” John reaches through the gate. “We’re going to need to coordinate.”

“Go to your right.” Sherlock shakes their cuffed hands. “Get on top of the bin. Now, John! Hurry!”

Something about the look of desperation on Sherlock’s face tips John over into the inevitable. He reaches through the gate and grabs Sherlock’s coat. “Sherlock, stop! I don’t know what’s going on, but I know it’s big and I know that once again, you’ve left me in the dark.”

“There are things in motion, John, things of which you have no idea.”

“Then enlighten me, Sherlock! What the _fuck_ is going on?”

“I can’t! John…” Sherlock’s voice cracks. “I can’t. Just, go to your right.”

“No, not until you tell me what’s going on, dammit!”

“Go. To. Your. Right,” snarls Sherlock.

John does the only thing he can think of. He pulls Sherlock up tight against the bars, reaches his free hand up to clasp the back of his head, and brings his mouth to Sherlock’s.

Oh god. His mouth against Sherlock’s. 

A shudder runs through John as soon as his lips touch Sherlock’s. He feels an answering tremour in Sherlock. It shouldn’t be reassuring, it shouldn’t, not when they’re on the run and everything is so fucked up. It is, though, it is. John feels the universe upend and then resettle and finally, _finally_ , he feels things long unsettled slot into their rightful place. It figures it would happen at the worst possible time. They kiss and kiss and kiss.

The kisses shouldn’t be the most intense of John’s life—there isn’t even any tongue, for fuck’s sake—but they’re frighteningly electric, and John wants nothing more than to kiss Sherlock forever.

After what feels like both a lifetime and not remotely long enough, they break apart.

“John…what…what was…” Sherlock is so thrown, he can’t finish.

“That was a long time coming, and you know it.”

Sherlock rests his forehead against the bars that separate them. “God, John. Timing.”

John can’t help it, he laughs. “Bit not good?”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh.

“What else do you expect when it comes to us?” John is still gripping the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“John, you have to know. You have to.”

“What, Sherlock? What do I have to know?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the bars. “Love is a vicious motivator,” he whispers.

Confused, John frowns. Then his world blinks out for a moment, comes roaring back, and rearranges itself as Sherlock’s words sink in.

“Wait.” John moves his hand from Sherlock’s neck to the side of his face. “What did you just say?”

No response.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, Sherlock. You’re… are you in love with me?”

“For god’s sake, John! Leave it.” Sherlock freezes, just for a moment, and then he kisses John back hard, whispering his name between kisses.

The kisses, tentative at first, turn frantic. Sherlock clutches at John as best he can with one free arm and bars between them. He runs his hand through John’s hair, caresses the side of John’s face, trails it down the side of his neck. He touches everything he can reach, and his kisses get sloppier as his focus shifts.

John, sensing that Sherlock is about to lose it, pulls back. Sherlock makes an anxious sound in his throat and reaches out to pull John back. It’s as if he’s trying to memorise John by touch, as if he won’t get a chance to touch him again. John feels his own anxiety ratchet up at the thought.

“No, Sherlock, stop. Stop. Let’s get me over this damn gate, yeah?” John speaks softly, trying to soothe Sherlock’s agitation (and his own).

After a few minutes of awkward coordination and contortion, John finally makes it over the gate and next to Sherlock. His trip over is not nearly as graceful as Sherlock’s, but Sherlock is too rattled to make any jokes about short friends.

Panting from the effort, John bends over slightly, trying not to pull Sherlock down with him. His pride stings, but his cuffed wrist hurts even more.

When he catches his breath, John stands back up. He raises his free hand and strokes the side of Sherlock’s face once more. “Will you tell me what’s going on? Please, Sherlock. You’ve got to tell me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Sherlock looks past John’s shoulder and then closes his eyes. He’s clearly having an internal argument with himself.

John clenches his fist and tells himself over and over to be patient, to let Sherlock work out whatever is going on in his brain. He wants to touch Sherlock again, kiss him hard, but he holds himself back.

Finally, Sherlock appears to come to some sort of agreement with himself. He sighs deeply and opens his eyes. He looks down at their cuffed hands for a moment before looking back up at John. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his set of lockpicks.

“And how long have you had those on you?” John’s irritation flares back up. “Those would have been especially handy before I made an arse out of myself getting over the gate just now!”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just concentrates on picking the lock. A minute later, the cuffs release and the men are finally separated. Sherlock tucks the picks and handcuffs away and watches John as he rubs his wrist.

John holds his tongue and waits. They’re on a precipice now, and it’s up to Sherlock to carry them back to safety. The air is suddenly heavier and more fraught with tension.

“John,” Sherlock starts. “I find myself of two minds. There are things at play, big things, bad things, things that I don’t want you to have any part of. I also know that I am only at my best when you are at my side and that I have a greater chance of success if I tell you everything.”

John nods, afraid to say anything. He doesn’t want to distract Sherlock, not now.

“Moriarty told me a long time ago what he would do to me. I didn’t listen to him, but I should have.”

John finally speaks. “What are you on about?”

“The pool, John. Remember? He strapped you with bombs and told me he’d burn the heart out of me.”

John creases his brows, confused. “I don’t get it.”

“Moriarty's trial. The kidnappings. The arrest. It’s all a set-up, don’t you see? Moriarty attacks my reputation, plants seeds of doubt about who I really am, what my intentions really are. And then he does the very worst thing.” Sherlock stops and takes a deep breath.

“Which is…?” prompts John.

“He does what he says he will. He burns the heart out of me.”

John doesn’t know what to say. He just stares at Sherlock, not trusting the implication.

“You, John. He means you. Don’t you see? I can’t let that happen. Mycroft and I… we have a plan. It’s not foolproof, there are risks, but it’s the best we can do.”

Stunned, John just stares. His heart. John feels the earth tilt once again tonight. He’s Sherlock’s heart. His own feels as if it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“John?” Sherlock takes a step back. “Forgive me. I said too much, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t make any difference now.”

The buzzing in John’s head clears a bit more. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? It matters more than anything!”

“It’s too late! I was an idiot, an _idiot,_ ” Sherlock hisses. “There’s only one way to stop Moriarty this because I failed to do it before.”

“Tell me, Sherlock. You can’t shut me out, not now.”

“I have to go, John. I don’t want to, but I don’t see any other way.”

“What do you mean you have to go? What stupid idea did you and your brother come up with?”

“It’s the only way to beat Moriarty at his own game.” Sherlock grabs his head with both hands. “We tried to think of anything else, Mycroft and I, we truly did. This is the only way,” he repeats.

“What is?” John knows he does not want to hear the next words out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“I have to die.”

The words hang in the night air. John is too horrified to speak.

“Not for real, John. But it must look real. Moriarty must think it’s real. _You_ must think it’s real. There’s no other way.”

John finds his words. “No, absolutely not. Fuck that plan. Fuck Mycroft for even thinking that’s an option. He’s the fucking government! He can come up with some other stupid plan that doesn’t mean you leave me!” By the end John is shouting and jabbing his finger at Sherlock. “Don’t you leave me, Sherlock Holmes, don’t you dare!” 

“What would you have me do instead, John?” Sherlock shouts back as he throws up his hands. “I don’t do this, and he kills you. He will kill you!

“So, it’s settled then, yeah? You and Mycroft have your plan and once again, I'm in the dark. Once again, I have no say, even if it means I'm the one left behind, hmm? You’d leave me here, without a clue. Without you.” John is so angry he can barely spit out the words.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John holds up his hand to cut him off. He’s not done yet.

“Moriarty said he’d burn the heart out of you. _Your_ heart, Sherlock, yours. You’d let him spare your heart, but you’d destroy my own!”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to look stunned as John’s words sink in. John watches as Sherlock finally understands that he is someone else’s heart too.

As suddenly as it flares up, the anger disappears.

All the love John has been holding onto starts to pour out, and he has no desire to hold it back. Not now, not when he finally knows the most important thing. Oh, this brilliant, baffling, beautiful man. He steps forward and takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his. “I love you too, you bloody idiot. Whatever happens, we’re in it together.”

Sherlock turns his hands so that his fingers interlace with John’s. His hands are shaking, but his voice is strong. “What a mess we’re in, John. Tonight’s just the beginning. After all, you did chin the Chief Superintendent.”

He’s deflecting but the relief on his face is so plain to see, John doesn’t call him out on it. He needs to diffuse their intense emotions as well. “I did. And you took a bystander hostage at gunpoint and fled the scene.”

“Gavin is not going to be happy.”

“ _Greg_ will want to kick both our arses, you git, but he’s also our friend and we can trust him. And as much as it pains me to say this, there’s Mycroft. The man will move mountains for you, you know that. I won't even mention Mrs Hudson.” He releases Sherlock’s hands and wraps his arms around him. “You’re not alone, Sherlock. You have to know that. More than anything else, you have me and we have each other. We always have, and we always will.”

Sherlock wraps his own arms around John and buries his face in his neck. “I’m sorry about the handcuffs.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You could have just asked to hold my hand, you know.”

Sherlock’s laugh is a bit wet, but John pretends not to notice. He hugs Sherlock tightly once more and then lets go before taking his hand.

“So, we're wanted by Scotland Yard, the world's most devious criminal mastermind wants us dead, and god knows what the British Government is up to. What now, my genius?”

Sherlock squeezes John’s hand and grins, his eyes shining. “I might have some ideas. Come, John, a new game is on!”

How they'll beat Moriarty at his own game, John doesn't know. What he does know, however, is that they will. What he does know, more than anything else, is this: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are a force to be reckoned with. Whatever comes next, he and Sherlock will face it as one.

They run into the night, together.


End file.
